The Day Time Stood Still
by movieholic
Summary: The red and blue lights played across his face, nearly too light to see in the waning sun. I shake my head and readjust the sheet. He looked as though the whole world stopped, as if time were standing still.


**The Day Time Stood Still**

**by movieholic**

**A/N: Any mistakes are mine, sorry. **

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There he was. Six foot and some, built solidly, and standing tall. His hair was cropped short, and a lighter shade of brown than years past, gray tapering at his temples. His face was impassive, yet held a seriousness and silent command. A slightly large, hooked nose, dragged down by years of sleepless nights, led up to dark brows arched above squinted hazel eyes. Dark, pink lips pursed in thought as they stood out against a darker shade of skin, tanned perhaps from a harsh New York sun, belying his Irish roots. A large gold ring rested on his left, ring finger. An academy ring, perhaps. Aside from the ring, a small pin rested on his lapel, glinting as it rose with his chest in a heavy sigh.

Charcoal gray slacks ended above sleekly shined shoes. An array of reds intertwined into a neat patterned tie, hanging loosely from his neck in an unprofessional manner, lie against a stark white shirt. Most of the officers milling around stayed a respectable distance away from the stock still man, allowing his space to grieve. He finally made a detectable move, a motion to crouch down in front of the slain body.

A hand came up to his mouth, as the elbow of the other arm rested on his well-muscled thigh. His eyes fluttered, before sliding closed for a few seconds. When they reopened, the hazel orbs flashed, outlined by black lashes. The hand slid away from the parted lips, coming to rest in a dangling position between his legs. His head tilted to the side, as if studying the prone form of the deceased, before he closed his eyes once more and hung his head.

Someone sidled over to my side, the warmth emanating from their thin jacket. I looked up to see striking blue eyes. A wry smile was a twisted sight on this ruggedly handsome detective's face. He motioned with his head to the crouched form of Logan. "How's he doing? I see he moved."

I shrugged and expelled a loose sigh. "You can never tell with him."

"Yeah? I heard that about him." After a moment of silence, the man turned to face me. "You Wheeler?"

I shook my head. Holding out my hand I said, "Nah, Spagnolo. I work in the same precinct as he does, but I never worked _with_ him."

"Stabler," he stated as he shook my hand. His grip was secure and firm. Turning to face Logan again, he added, "So, what are we looking at here?"

I bite my bottom lip. "Rape, homicide."

"COD?"

"Blunt force trauma to the base of the skull."

Stabler shakes his head slowly. "Man, I hate this job."

"Yeah," I whisper, "Me too." My eyes never strayed from Logan. He hasn't moved since he knelt down next to her body.

"Poor bastard. Two dead partners, one injured to the point of a life-time desk job, and two just up and leave." Stabler sighs and places a pair of dark sunglasses on.

I turn to look at him, "What do you know about him?"

"Usual hot head, forced to work Staten Island after the issue with uh," he waves a hand around, searching for a name. Instead he settled for, "That, uh, councilman. His jacket's as thick as mine," he says with an almost affectionate tone.

"So?" I'm getting frustrated now.

Sensing my anger, Stabler raises his eyebrows and gives me an innocent expression. "I don't mean nothing by it, I just feel bad for the guy."

"I know," I mutter.

"Yeah, well, I guess I need to get to work." The way he says it makes me feel sickeningly sad for him too. He places his hands in his trouser pockets and saunters over to a brunette. They share a few words before a familiar face comes up beside them. Cragen, Don Cragen. He had transferred over to Special Victims years before.

My eyes stray over to Logan once more. A pained expression marred his handsome face, his hand once more at his lips. A white sheet is placed over the dead woman's body, blocking his view. He shakes his head roughly and stands up, wincing as his joints seemingly protest. Stabler and his partner, Benson, take this as their cue to talk with him. Before they open their mouths, Logan holds up a hand and shakes his head. He mouths something then takes a few steps backwards, nearly stumbling. Stabler holds out a hand, ready to steady the distraught man. But after shoving the help away, and looking as though he may puke, Logan strode away angrily.

"Oh," I murmured, "Poor Mikey." I inched closer to the white sheet, lying on the asphalt. Detectives Benson and Stabler mumbled among themselves, as I crouched near the sheet. Lifting up a corner, I take one last look at the once beautiful woman. "Christ, Liz, you shouldn't have been alone. Who's Mikey gonna talk to now? He doesn't have you, he doesn't have anyone."

I glance up and see the solidly built man, hands shoved in the deep crevices of his trouser pockets, staring out over a police cruiser. The red and blue lights played across his face, nearly too light to see in the waning sun. I shake my head and readjust the sheet. He looked as though the whole world stopped, as if time were standing still. "I'm so, damn sorry Logan."

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